


Midnight on the Midway

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Carnival, Case Fic, Creepy and disturbing things happen, Eldritch, Gen, Horror, Spooky, creepy carnival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 12:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: Sam and Dean join a carnival to investigate reports of children vanishing. The carnival seems nice and everyone is pleasant, leading them to wonder if they've made a mistake. However a stake-out leads to the discovery of a horror they never dreamed of.





	Midnight on the Midway

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 SPN Eldritch Mini-Bang. Alpha reads by [](https://jerzcaligrl.livejournal.com/profile)[jerzcaligrl](https://jerzcaligrl.livejournal.com/) and [](https://theatregirl7299.livejournal.com/profile)[theatregirl7299](https://theatregirl7299.livejournal.com/), beta by [](https://jerzcaligrl.livejournal.com/profile)[jerzcaligrl](https://jerzcaligrl.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Link to [Art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994656)

“A carnival? You gotta be kidding, Sammy!”

Dean shuddered, his face squinching up and tongue sticking out like he'd eaten something vile. Flapping a hand at his brother, he complained, “Jesus, wasn't that killer-clown hunt we did enough carnival time? I never want to go near one of those places again.”

Sam sighed tiredly. He had to admit that Dean had a point; they'd hunted a _rakshasa_, a kind of demon-killer-clown entity, at a two-bit carnival years ago, and the whole experience had been both dangerous and unsavory. Sam himself was not any more eager than Dean to pursue this.

Dean continued complaining, “Didn't one of them sleep on a bed of dead bugs? Brrrr!” He shook himself all over. “That's just plain _nasty_, Sam! It's—it's unsanitary!”

Sam tried to placate his hunting partner and brother. “I know, Dean, but it looks like there's a case. I think kids have been disappearing along this carnival's path wherever it travels. No one has put it all together—it's just these little podunk towns and random kids, but it looks suspicious to me. I think we need to check it out.” Sam looked at Dean pleadingly. He was not in a hurry to look into a rinky-dink operation like Carnivale Splendide either, but the thought of children vanishing, their bodies never found or laid to rest, horrified him. Any human lives were terrible to lose, but children dying engendered an extra sense of wrongness and grief in both of the Winchesters.

Dean huffed and sat down heavily. “You're right. I'm just bitching. If kids are being snatched like that, we have to try and stop it.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “Where is this carny-thing now?”

“Battle Creek, Nebraska”

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139238/139238_original.jpg)

They had just wrapped up a situation with cranky gnomes in Michigan, so the next morning the Winchesters packed up their duffels and took off in the Impala. It looked to be about a ten hour drive, barring stops. There wasn't a lot for Sam to research en route; a subject like missing children was too vague, had too many possible causes, including human ones. He looked into the children's names he already had assembled, trying to match up reports of disappearances with the carnival's meandering travels without much success. They drove straight through, listening to Dean's mullet rock tapes and taking turns napping, but they both felt anxious to get there before another child went missing.

“I don't think there's any point stopping by the local Sheriff,” Dean said when they were almost there. “A lot of these disappearances only have cursory reports anyway, so let's not waste time with what we already know. Let's get a room and then see about getting hired at the carnival. Place like that always needs extra hands.” He turned off the main road when they saw a motel sign on a weathered billboard, its faded paint still gamely advertising the charms of the Soldier Inn (“Now With AC and Color TV in EVERY ROOM!”). 

Sam agreed about the plan. Getting jobs at the carnival was the best way to infiltrate it. Neither of them were strangers to hard work, and it was often in that atmosphere of shared labor and sweat that information was uncovered and truths came out.

Pulling into the gravel parking lot at the Soldier Inn, Dean got out and paid for a room, rolling his eyes at Sam when he left the small lobby. “Come on, bro, let's see what magnificence awaits us.” Sam shook his head in amusement at his brother. They'd learned to find the humor in the 'colorful' places they stayed.

As they preferred, their room was the end unit on the strip of a dozen rooms. Sam opened the door and Dean whistled. The entire room was painted in olive green. The rug was dirt brown, and the bed spreads were camouflage. A couple of canvas camp chairs sat next to a wooden table, and white netting hung over the curtains.

“Okay, let's get settled a bit and go eat. I saw a diner close by.” Dean grinned. “Dinner at seventeen hundred, Private!”

“Sir yes sir!” retorted Sam with a salute. He laughed as he washed his face and hands, squawking when Dean snapped a towel at him to make him hurry up.

Up the road a mile or so was Trixie's Tasty Eats, an old-school dining car place complete with black and white checkered linoleum and chrome-trimmed booths. Dean was very pleased with his country fried steak and home fries, and Sam found the baked chicken and salad quite good. They got some apple crumb pie to bring back to the room, happy to relax back with pie and beers and just unwind a little after the push of the drive. The only plan for the next day was applying for work at the carnival, which left time that night for seeing what movies were on the limited motel cable.

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139447/139447_original.jpg)

Fall in the Midwest meant warm, sunny days and cool clear nights, perfect weather for attending outdoor events like a traveling carnival. Even at ten a.m., Sam and Dean found the carnival getting ready for the afternoon and evening's entertaining. The air itself seemed to be bustling. Animals were being fed and aired, booths and tents cleaned and spruced up. Only the carnival folk were around at this point, but they all appeared cheerful enough to Dean as the Winchesters walked around looking for the owner.

Dean stopped on a dime when a beautiful young woman walked past with a smile. “I got this, Sammy,” he said, turning and making a beeline after her. The woman's thick hair was down to her waist, the kind of deep black that has blue highlights, and her skin was a dark caramel. Dean cleared his throat and gave her a little bow with a big smile. “Excuse me, miss, could you help us? We're looking for the carnival owner. We're hoping to get jobs here. Do you know if he's hiring?”

The black-haired woman batted thick lashes over her dark brown eyes at Dean. “Oh, we are always looking for strong young men like yourselves! There is always a lot of work to do here.” Her luscious red lips smiled at him, then she clicked her tongue when she noticed Sam hanging back behind Dean. “But you two are too handsome for just manual labor! You should be in the ring, performing! Do you have any...special skills?” She drawled the last two words out and winked.

Dean leered back. “Nothing I can do in public.” He jerked his thumb back at Sam. “He's hella strong though. You need a strongman?” He ignored Sam's grimace.

The black-haired lady walked over to Sam, running her hands up and down Sam's arm and across his back as if she were checking out a horse. “Oh my, he _is_ a strong one! We must bring him to Salvatore, the carnival owner. And you, querido? Perhaps you can just come out and look pretty!” She laughed a rich, musical laugh, her bosom shaking delightfully much to Dean's enjoyment.

“Well, we should become acquainted then. I am Anita Marquez, the Air Dancer. I do trapeze work and also the long scarves, you know, they hang from the rafters and I climb them.” She looked expectantly at them.

“Nice to meet you, Anita. I'm Dean, Dean Anderson, and this is my brother Sam. We've been kinda free-wheeling it through the Midwest on a road trip. Is there a...Señor Anita?” 

“Oh no, I do not like to tie myself down. I like the traveling life too much for that!” Anita started walking, hips swaying, gesturing for them to accompany her. “Let's go find Salvatore.”

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139447/139447_original.jpg)

Salvatore agreed that Sam had the potential to be the new strongman. He had Sam take off his shirt and turn around a few times, then directed him to strike some silly poses. Dean knew his brother was strong and well- built, but seeing Sam posing in the sunlight, shirtless and flexing, was a different perspective. He was proud of his brother, but Dean reassured himself mentally that even though he wasn't as ripped as Sam, at least he had better game.

Anita gave several oohs and ahhs during the course of this display, clapping enthusiastically while Sam put his shirt back on. “Oh, Sal, you must hire him! The last strongman we had was that oaf Wally, with the big big belly from the beer! Sam here has the nice flat belly with the pretty ripples across it!” She ran a finger down Sam's sternum, making Dean snicker and Sam's cheeks flare red.

“Yes, you'd be an excellent strong man,” Salvatore agreed. “And call me Sal when we're not in the ring. 'Salvatore' is just for that exotic sound, you know.” A short, stout man, Sal had a round, affable face, unlike the oily sleaze-bag Dean had half-expected to find as the carnival owner. Sal offered a fair wage for Sam's performing, but did warn him he'd have to get his chest shaved or waxed regularly, so as not to obscure the muscles with hair. He'd be given a costume, and a small, easy act, being mostly eye-candy.

“Now you, Dean,” said Sal. “If you'd like to be in the ring, I'm sure we could figure something out for you. You're a handsome, strong fellow yourself, and the ladies like that. I like to make sure there's something for everyone—pretty ladies, handsome fellas, cute stuff for the kids. But I'll leave it up to you which you'd prefer, the ring or behind the scenes.”

“I'd like behind the scenes, if you don't mind,” answered Dean, inwardly squirming at the thought of performing. “I think one Anderson in the spotlight is enough.” His thought was that having Sam in the ring and himself behind the scenes covered the bases in terms of the carnival structure. Plus he did not want to end up in whatever skimpy glad rags they were going to give Sam. Dean glanced sideways at his unsuspecting brother and snickered again.

Sam looked at him curiously. “What? What is it?” Dean chortled and walked away, leaving Sam to trail after him, still asking, “Dean? What is it? What's so funny?”

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139238/139238_original.jpg)

The Winchesters left the fairground pleased with all of the arrangements and returned to the Soldier Inn. The carnival was not due to move on for a couple of weeks still, so they could stay there for the time being. Hopefully the case would be either dismissed or resolved before then.

Since they weren't starting their new jobs until the next day, Sam and Dean found themselves with a rare afternoon off. They spent it doing much needed laundry, cleaning out the Impala, and going through the weapons. That night, they planned to attend the show as customers, wanting to familiarize themselves with things before they were actively involved in the performances.

The carnival had the usual areas of business: an alley with half a dozen various games of chance and skill; a couple of food trucks with typical fair offerings like fried dough, corn dogs, and various sweets; a few attractions; and the main tent for the performances. The attractions featured three rides, a funny mirrors room, and a funhouse, complete with blind mirrored hallways and moving floor sections. Dean hated the funhouse. He didn't like the ground moving under his feet, and he liked even less not being able to just see his way out. Their struggle to trap the invisible _rakshasa_ in a mirror maze had killed any further desire Dean might have had for funhouse fun.

Dean looked over at Sam, who appeared to be observing everything calmly and casually. Dean knew that Sam was deeply committed to keeping any more kids from disappearing--his casual demeanor was merely a front. Dean envied how effortlessly blasé his brother could appear; only his eyes, darting here and there, studying everything, showed Sam's busy brain at work. Dean knew Sam wasn't missing a thing, and felt afresh how grateful he was for having an excellent hunting partner. He often wondered how hunters could work alone.

Walking around in the darkening evening, Dean felt a little jumpy on the carnival grounds. Ropes of colored lights hung between tents and wound around poles, casting tiny pools of orange, red, yellow, and green light over faces and booths. The twinkling colors made everything look surreal, creating lots of little moving shadows, thanks to the evening breeze. Shrieks and yells, screams and bursts of laughter were probably just people having fun, but to Dean they were jarring, sharp, and put him constantly on edge for danger.

“How do people find this fun?” he muttered to Sam as they walked around the grounds. “Every few seconds, it sounds like someone's getting scalped.”

“People are just letting off some steam, Dean. Not saying it's my thing either, but it's a break from their everyday lives, a chance to see and feel something beyond the nine-to-five grind. Heck, for the kids, it's magic.” Sam paused and Dean realized they were at one of the food trucks. “Come on, big brother, I'll buy you a corn dog and a beer.”

Munching their corn dogs and drinking their beer, the Winchesters resumed walking around the carnival grounds. The grass was mostly brown along the paths where people walked, but still green at the edges. The air felt soft, just a little current moving gently, and Dean thought that this was exactly the kind of weather that the word balmy was made for. If they weren't on a case, he could actually enjoy this.

They reached at the rides, where they stopped to watch families and couples spin around on the various machines. Multicolored lights flashed up and down the arms of the rides, dizzily illuminating the screaming and laughing faces. Dean almost felt queasy just looking at them, and quickly turned away. “Gravity is good enough for me,” he grumbled, glaring at the people queued up for their turn. Sam chuckled and patted Dean's back reassuringly.

Dean sensed Sam's shudder when they walked past the funny mirrors and the funhouse. He knew Sam was no more a fan of them than Dean was. Just past the funhouse was a tent festively striped in red, purple, and white, with a large sign over the entrance that read “Manikin City”. People leaving the tent were smiling and laughing, so Dean figured it must a pleasant exhibit rather than a horror- or surprise-based one. He nudged Sam with an elbow, nodding toward the tent, and Sam nodded back, allowing himself to be steered to the entrance.

Dean gave the ticket-taker five dollars for the two of them to enter. They ducked under the canvas swell of the entrance flap and walked into the open space inside. 

The tent was mostly filled with a big round platform in the center; it was set a good foot off the ground and rose up a couple of feet more. A metal railing cordoned the platform off, so no one could touch it. The curious spectators were ringed behind the railing, watching the platform, which in turn rotated slowly for a full display from all angles.

On the platform were a number of little houses, about three feet tall, all painted in bright cheerful colors. Little flower bushes and hedges sectioned some of the houses off, and little sidewalks wound around between them. It was a very pretty little neighborhood, including a white church with a little spire and a fire station.

A chime sounded, and doors opened all over the village. Sam and Dean both gave a little gasp.

Little 'people'--two to two and a half feet tall--emerged from their wee houses and began to walk around the 'town'. There were daddies and mommies and children, even a couple of babies in little strollers. They walked around on the sidewalks, winding their way through the houses. A few of the children played with a ball. The 'adults' stopped, nodding their heads while their mouths moved like they were chatting with one another. One 'man' ran a push-mower over the church lawn. 

“Ain't it something?” A grandmotherly lady commented to Dean. “Just precious!” She chuckled, then added, “This ain't all yet either. Just wait for it!”

Dean and Sam exchanged a puzzled glance. They looked back at the village as a tiny alarm sounded. The big doors on the fire station opened, and out came a shiny red fire engine, staffed with four firemen. The fire engine ran around the town's perimeter before ending up in front of a pink house that had some smoke rising from it. Hopping off the fire engine, the firemen unwound a couple of hoses, hooked them up to a tiny hydrant, and began to spray the house with water. The townsfolk all clapped loudly.

“See? Ain't it grand? It's like them little robots—anamatoniks or sump'in.” The elderly lady sighed happily. “I just love watchin' 'em. So darn sweet!” She chuckled and went off to the exit.

“Anama-what?” Dean muttered to Sam.

“I think she meant animatronics. Realistic looking figures with robotic workings inside, and they can be programmed. They get used a lot in movies for animals and fantasy creatures, like the dinosaurs in _Jurassic Park_.” Sam pursed his mouth. “Gotta say, this is some good work here. These look fantastic. I wonder who's behind for this?” He studied the figures, one hand on his chin.

Dean shrugged, already losing interest in what essentially were simply mechanical dolls. Besides, they were kinda creepy to him, these little doll robots. “Don't know, don't really care. We need to focus on who could be behind the disappearances. Let's hit the hay and get an early start tomorrow.”

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139238/139238_original.jpg)

Sam spent his first morning working at Salvatore's Carnivale Splendide helping feed the ponies and mucking out their stalls. His strongman duties didn't start until late afternoon when the gate opened, and he got extra pay for the manual labor. He appreciated the money, often in short supply for the Winchesters, but his focus was getting to know people and see if he could find any connections to the disappearances.

The dog and pony show was run by Evan Petiper, an older man--mid-sixties Sam estimated--with a kind face, fluffy white hair, and a gentle manner. He showed Sam what to do about cleaning the stalls and where the fresh hay was, then spent some time himself grooming and petting the ponies, talking to them softly. There were five ponies in various shades of white or light gray, all of them looking to be in excellent health and well-cared for. They were very fond of Evan, nickering softly and pushing their velvety pink noses into his hands looking for apple slices and sugar cubes. Sam smiled at the amiable interplay between horses and human while he pitched hay and shoveled out dirty straw.

The dogs were much livelier. Basically mutts of varying appearance, they yipped and jumped around happily, looking for pats and treats. Evan took them all out for a little run, telling Sam, “They got too much energy otherwise, need to run it off before the performance.” When they returned, the dogs all panting with tongues lolling, they indeed appeared much more biddable, happily flopping down and lapping messily at their water dishes.

Evan had been at the carnival for many years, and seemed to know everything about everybody. Sam scarcely had to ask a question, and Evan readily started rambling about the carnival's history. 

“Sal used to be assistant manager of Sherman's Showtime, then he became the manager until Sherman, the owner, died. They sold everything off and Sal got half the proceeds, so he decided to use it to start his own show. Some of Sherman's people came with Sal—Bingo and Bongo the clowns, me, some of the crew. Rest of them he hired along the way, either he'd find them somewhere or they'd find him, just like you and your brother did. There's always people looking for the freedom of the carny life. Sal here runs a fair show, he does, doesn't trick the customers—not that there ain't illusion, because what's magic without illusion? But the marks get a decent show for their money, and the performers all get paid fair and square, not like some places that basically use them like indentured labor. There are some real slimeball shysters out there.”

That was all good information to know, and Sam couldn't help thinking that if something was going on, Sal was not part of it. He mentally checked Sal off his list. 

“What about you, Evan? Wife? Family?”

A sad expression flitted across Evan's face. “Had a wife, she was a carny too. Fortune teller. She was so fun to travel with. Died a few years ago. We never had kids, just never fortunate enough. But we had our carny family and our animals, and we were happy.” He stroked one dog's furry ear, cooing to the rest of the dogs. Sam felt a little pang for Evan, alone but for his animals now, but thought some people didn't even have that much. He bade Evan goodbye and set off to find Anita, wanting to talk with her next.

Anita was busy in her wagon, going through her costumes, sorting out which ones needed to go for cleaning and which were okay. There was a lot of bright colors, spangles, and draping spread out all over. She chatted merrily, hardly needing any prompting from Sam, much like Evan had been. Sam wondered if chattiness was a hallmark of carny folks.

“I never get tired of the traveling. Always new people, new towns. And I never get tired of the performing! I love to perform. To swing up high is so exciting, and then the audience does the oohs and ahhs! All for me! It is very enjoyable.” She held up a burgundy and silver costume, pursing her mouth as she considered its fate.

“And you've been with Sal a long time, I hear.” Sam took a sip from the water bottle he'd nabbed during the stable cleaning.

“Yes! I could have left a few times, men were proposing to me, offering me all kinds of things.” She shook her head. “I do not want to be tied down. I am my own person, and I choose my life.”

“What about kids?” inquired Sam. “Did you ever want a family? Do you miss not having children?”

Anita shrugged. “Los ninos are adorable, but they are also messy and a great deal of work, si?. If I had married, I might have had some, but in this life? No. But that was the compromise I was willing to make.” She tossed the last costume on a pile. “I am happy here. Now, would you use those nice muscles and take that pile to Sal? He will arrange the cleaning.” She kissed Sam's cheek with a loud smack. “Gracias!”

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139447/139447_original.jpg)

Dean spent the first part of his morning doing safety checks on the mechanics of the rides, examining the metal for stress and the machinery for any breakage or ill-working parts. He had to climb all over them, looking underneath seats and into the guts of the rides. He saw a lot of faded paint, but the metal itself was all sound. After that, he was scheduled to work on a couple of the carnival trucks, doing oil changes and general maintenance. Before he started on the trucks, Dean took a little break and managed to sit down for coffee with the two senior clowns, Bingo and Bongo. Or, as they were really known as, Ron and Wes.

Ron was a sharp-witted guy, a half-smile always on his lean face. Wes was shorter and slighter, with big gray eyes and a sweet expression. They were apparently close buddies as well as co-workers, sharing both a wagon and an act. Dean was not a big fan of clowns, although he didn't hate them like Sam did, but these two guys seemed like decent sorts.

“Yeah, we were here with Sherman,” said Ron, talking through a mouthful of pastry. “I ran away from home practically as a kid, and worked a couple of different shows. Sal has been the best one for being fair and aboveboard. Wes here quit some stupid nine-to-five and came here. I taught him everything he knows!” He cackled and elbowed Wes, who grinned amiably.

“Yeah, yeah. I thought maybe I'd join a band, but I fell in with Ron, and we just clicked. Now I love being a clown—making kids laugh is the best feeling. This is the only carnival I've worked for, and it's been great.” Wes smiled at Ron and drank some coffee.

Dean slurped his own coffee before asking, “What about families? You guys ever want to have kids of your own? Or do you hate kids now that you are around them all the time?” He watched the two men for their reaction.

“Hate them! We love them!” Wes protested.

“And we never wanted that kind of family thing. This place is our family, and we have all the kids we could want to play with.” Ron glanced at Wes and then back at Dean. “We're _partner-_partners, if you know what I mean, so having kids of our own was out.”

Dean stared blankly at Ron and Wes until his eyes dropped and he realized they were holding hands. “Oh! Oh. Uh, sure, that makes sense.” They beamed at him and then each other, so Dean swept up his trash and stood up. “Gotta go work on the trucks now. Thanks for the chat!”

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139447/139447_original.jpg)

Sam found Dean working on a truck, and proceeded to pass on everything he'd heard, and his impressions of Evan and Anita as well.

“I haven't heard as much concrete stuff as you did, but I definitely got the impression that this is a clean operation, nothing trashy or corrupt going on.” Dean sighed, rubbing a greasy hand across his forehead and leaving a black smear, making Sam snicker. “So that's all well and good, but it does jack-squat for us.”

“Yeah, that's how I feel too. Everyone we talked to so far seems straight-forward and above board. I can't imagine any of them involved in these disappearances, much less deaths, if that's what it turns out to be.” Sam sighed and shook his head. “Here I am actually complaining about decent people.”

Dean snorted. “Let's see what happens during the show tonight. It'll be our first night inside the place as one of them. Maybe we'll see something hinky, or something will shake loose. If that doesn't help, then let's do a stake-out--watch the place overnight, make sure it stays aboveboard. Yes?”

“Yep,” Sam agreed. “Sounds good to me.”

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139238/139238_original.jpg)

By five p.m., Sam was showered and in his costume, which he felt rather uncomfortable in. It was essentially a Tarzan-style loincloth on top of spandex briefs, over which he wore a breakaway khaki shirt and shorts. The idea was that he was a jungle explorer who'd gotten lost and had 'gone native'. Sam gamely refrained from asking if the purported 'natives' also wore loincloths. It was a job, and he'd do what he had to do. It didn't mean he necessarily had to like it.

His bit was early on in the show, where he was lost in the forest and eventually stripped off his khaki clothing to cheers and catcalls. He roamed around the tent, striking poses to show off his muscles and picking up large objects planted in the scene, even a young lady or two. After he was done, he was to go out on the grounds, flexing and lifting things. Being his first night, Sam stayed mostly in or near the ring, watching the other acts and the audience to look for anything peculiar. Dean sat higher in the back of the audience bleachers, giving him a good angle to also observe the action. After the show, they planned to meet for beers and note-comparing.

Sam was quite surprised by the real skill Anita showed in her trapeze act, which she performed with two men. Her long, graceful body looked like it floated through the air as she swung from one set of hands to the other, or flipped around the swing bar. Later, she did her act with long scarves that hung from the top rafters of the tent, where she shimmied high up the silky trails and then did all kinds of elegant twists and turns, looping and dropping only to catch herself gracefully and winning many oohs and ahhs from the crowd.

Evan's dog and pony show proved to be very cute and amusing. The dogs were decked out in sparkly collars; they were goofy and mischievous but clever, answering questions, doing tricks, and finally riding on the ponies. The ponies had matching sparkly harnesses with little feathery plumes on their heads. They trotted in various patterns on command, galloped in circles with their dog jockeys, and finally all of the dogs and ponies alike did a little dance together. Sam found himself smiling and applauding along with the crowd—it was really a delightful act, very enjoyable. Evan, looking distinguished in a white suit with a sparkly waistcoat, bowed and waved as the animals all dipped their heads before running out of the ring.

“That was really good,” Sam said when he rejoined Dean back at the dressing room tent. “I enjoyed that a lot. I gotta say, it's hard to think of anything evil going on here.”

“Yeah, I know. That was a fun show, and everyone seems to be pretty nice.” Dean sighed. “It's gonna suck if something really is off. We can't assume anything either way yet. Gotta say no one is pinging my radar at all.”

Sam changed gratefully into his regular clothes, and they went off to get a late dinner and a beer before getting ready for the stake-out.

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139447/139447_original.jpg)

Sam and Dean managed a couple of hours of sleep after a quick dinner at Trixie's, and at three a.m. they returned to the carnival grounds. Dean parked a quarter of a mile away, leaving the Impala next to some large bushes for cover. They hid behind the dressing room tent, being that it was empty now; they wanted to stay away from the animal tents, to be sure they didn't disturb the dogs or ponies and provoke any barking. They kept an eye in each direction, poised but relaxed; they'd been trained to the necessity of sitting motionless, noiseless, for hours at a time.

Dean kept a slow scan going across the fields and the empty carnival ground. An hour or so into the stake-out, a couple of small black shadows caught his eye, crossing the empty field. As they grew closer, the shadows resolved into two dogs, panting softly as they trotted along and—Dean rubbed his eyes to be sure—a child in between them, a hand on each collar, moving in sync with them. He poked an elbow at Sam to turn around and look.

“This sure ain't time for a kid that age to be out. Can't be more than four,” whispered Dean into Sam's ear. Sam didn't reply, just nodded, frowning and watching intently. 

The dogs and child passed by a few yards away. Sam and Dean slid out of their hiding spot and followed them. The dogs ended up at Evan's wagon, parked by the animal tent. They scratched at Evan's door, apparently just waiting for the door to open since they scampered off to their tent as soon as it did. Dean's stomach dropped at the implication. What did Evan want with a little kid? Dean was not a praying man, but he did hope fervently that there was an innocent explanation.

A creak of Evan's wagon door and a rectangle of dim, bluish light spilled out, illuminating the child standing on the grass, his or her little face just starting to scrunch up in dismay. Dean wondered why the kid hadn't made a peep before now, but pushed that question away for the time being. What was more pressing was how Evan was stepping out of his wagon, taking the child's hand and walking off with it. 

“What the fuck, Sammy?” muttered Dean softly. “Is he really the killer?” He felt a slow churn start in the pit of his stomach; he'd pegged Evans as a good guy, the kindly grandfather-type, but now...it wasn't looking good.

“I don't know, dude. I don't want that to be true either. Let's go after him and see what's going on.” Sam tread noiselessly after Evan and the child, Dean following him. They tracked Evan to...

“Manikin City?” Dean looked perplexedly at Sam. “What is this, some crazy middle of the night playdate?”

Sam shook his head, his mouth a tight line. “Come on, Dean, we gotta get in there. I'm getting a really bad feeling about this.” Dean was getting that bad feeling himself, skin goose-pimpling in the night's chill.

They hastened quietly, keeping their gaze on Evan, who was momentarily standing still in front of Manikin City. Dropping to the ground just in time to avoid being spotted, the Winchesters saw Evan scan the area before entering the tent, dragging the now-reluctant child under the canvas flap with him.

Dean and Sam hurried to the tent entrance, widening the opening around the flap just enough so they could see into the tent, which was now faintly lit.

The child—now discernibly a little boy—looked to be between three and four years old, all chubby curves, rosy cheeks, and golden ringlets. He was aware enough to know he was in a strange place, and he was clearly tired and unhappy, his eyes half-closed, sweet mouth pouting and petulant. “W'ere da puppies?” he asked plaintively again and again, his voice a sleepy monotone. “I wan' da puppies.”

Evan stroked his head and murmured gently. “Don't worry about the puppies,” he said not unkindly, but with his attention clearly focused elsewhere. He was busy at a bank of controls, all sorts of knobs and levers, dials and switches. Then he went over to a large rectangular structure behind a dark drape in the back of the tent. The drape pulled aside and revealed a massive machine of some type, although nothing that Dean could recognize. 

Evan threw a giant circuit breaker switch on, and the machine began humming softly while little lights blinked on and off. He returned to the child, talking quietly with him, voice too soft for either Dean or Sam to hear his words.

“I don't know what's happening,” whispered Sam. “What's that machine doing? Where does the kid fit in here?”

“I don't know either,” answered Dean. “I think we gotta make a move here and nab that kid back. Pretty sure this isn't going to end well.” After all, when did it ever?

While they'd conferred, Evan had straightened up and led the little boy over to the big machine. The boy blinked owlishly at the flashing lights. Laying a hand on the boy's head, Evan stroked the fine, curly hair again while he opened a door in the machine. With an unexpectedly abrupt motion, Evan shoved the boy inside, slamming the door and latching it shut.

The little boy screamed and screamed.

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/firesign10/4507356/139238/139238_original.jpg)

Evan's sudden action and the awful screams galvanized Sam. He and Dean both leaped from their vantage point to confront Evan. Dean grabbed Evan by the arm. “What did you do?” he growled angrily.

Sam ran to the machine's door and wrestled with the handle, but he couldn't get it open. “Get him out!” barked Sam at Evan, gesturing wildly at the machine. 

The machine hummed loudly, and the screams suddenly stopped. Sam didn't want to think what that cessation meant.

“Oh no, you don't want to open it now,” Evan demurred. “That's never good. You have to wait for it to finish the process.” Evan pulled his arm free and brushed himself off. “No! You open it now, it'll only be half-done. You'll spoil it, it'll be ruined. I'll have to throw it away and find another one. Wasteful.”

Sam looked shocked at Evan's uncaring words, especially such dreadful intent emanating from that kindly face. Even now, a gentle smile played about Evan's mouth, his faded blue eyes gleaming purposefully at the Winchesters. The dichotomy between Evan's newly-displayed evil and his former kindliness sent chills throughout Dean.

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” roared Dean. “Get him out of there right the fuck now! What's happening to him?” Anger and repulsion were rising in equal measure inside Dean, and it was making him ready to tear something up.

“He's getting ready to join Manikin City,” Evan answered calmly, flicking some switches. “He'll have a perfect little life. I thought maybe he could be a new fireman, what do you think? Don't you think he looks like a fireman? He'll like that. Everyone wants to be a fireman.” He hummed to himself a little.

Sam's grunted like he'd been punched in the stomach. Dean looked at him, his green eyes wide and horrified in his white face. “Sammy...” His voice was strained. “What...Can he...”

“I don't know, Dean.” Dean saw Sam swallow hard against the gorge rising in his throat. “It's not possible, it shouldn't be possible. Somehow...I think he's doing it though.” 

Dean grabbed Evan and shook him hard. “Explain yourself, you son-of-a-bitch! What the hell are you doing to that poor kid?!”

Evan giggled gaily. The pure joy in that sound tipped Sam over the edge of his revulsion, and he turned away to retch, vomiting everything in his stomach. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he turned back as Evan explained.

“It's a mixture of magic and machinery. My wife, Sabine, she was the fortune teller here, and she knew quite a bit of magic. Together we created this device, me building it while she embedded the magic into the metal. Alone, neither of us could have accomplished this, but together—we got our lovely little manikins.” His face saddened. “We were never able to have children of our own, you know, but she was so, so happy with the manikins.”

Sam and Dean stood helplessly watching the machine purr and beep, while Evan puttered with switches and gauges. Occasionally it shook a little, vibrating with whatever process was going on inside. Dean felt furious but frozen, unable to do anything but wait. When he glanced at Sam, he saw how pale and pinched Sam looked, his jaw clenched.

Finally, with a tinny burp, the machine stopped. Another door opened and disgorged the boy.

He was clearly no longer human. His skin had the pale waxy perfection of the other manikins, and his eyes were wide open and glassy clear with no hint of emotion, like perfect shiny marbles. He walked smoothly for a few steps before stopping and looking around blankly.

Evan shook free of Sam's loose hold and approached the new manikin. “Hello, my lad. Your name is...let's see, how about Peter? Your name is Peter, and you're going to live in the firehouse.” Evan picked Peter up and stepped up onto the platform of the city, walking over to the firehouse, lifting off its roof and placing Peter inside. Replacing the roof, Evan returned to Sam and Dean. 

“The city will guide him through his role now. He's going to have a happy, happy life, and bring joy to a lot of people.” Evan sighed happily.

Dean's fist landed square on Evan's nose, breaking the bone and sending Evan backwards to land in a heap. Blood dripped down his face, and he raised an arm to gently wipe at it with his sleeve.

“I don't know how you did that, and I don't care. That was disgusting! You turned that little boy into a fucking robot, a mechanical dummy, for amusement! A happy life? You just _ended_ his life!” Dean growled.

Evan waved his hand. “He's safe. Cared for. Probably not as long a lifetime in years, but a good bit more peaceful. Ain't for you to judge, is it?”

Sam turned toward Dean, his eyes burning in his white face. “We can't save him, Dean. But we can stop this. Tonight. No...no more of these...these _creatures_. We end it.”

Dean nodded, his stomach churning, his limbs tingling. Evan turned away from them, fussing over his village, adjusting a tree branch here, dusting the sidewalk off there. The Winchesters didn't spare another look at him or each other. Turning as one, they faced the machine, that strange amalgam of metal gears and magic spells. Dean dug around in his duffle and pulled out a brick of C4, snapping his fingers at Sam. Sam gave Dean a thumb's up.

While Dean searched for a detonator in his bag, Sam bashed at the machine door with the butt of his shotgun. The door took a few blows, but finally caved enough that Sam could grab the edge and yank it open, ripping it free from its hinges. Inside was darkness and a bewildering tangle of inexplicable gears and machinery.

Dean found the detonator and stabbed it into the brick of C4. Approaching the machine, he reached in through the opening from door leaning crazily on one hinge and stuck the brick onto the inside wall of the machine. He and Sam ran to the other side of the platform city, grabbing Evan on the way, and they all hit the ground behind the city. Evan resisted frenziedly, yelling and struggling to get loose from Dean's grip. “No! My children! No!” Dean punched him just hard enough to make him flop down and shut up.

The C4 exploded with a resounding thump. Metal screeched and groaned, shredding and tearing as the force of the explosive swelled inside it. A hail of scrap rained down, smoking and scorching hot, blanketing the manikin town. Twisted pieces hit the Winchesters and Evan as well as the ground around them. Sam and Dean hastily brushed the hot metal shards off, exclaiming and cursing, but Evan ignored them and any burns he'd received. He scrabbled to his feet, face creased in unbridled distress, hands reaching urgently towards his creations as their bodies lay around the toy town.

Sam watched in sick horror as Evan went from one manikin to another, keening and crying over the child-dolls. Hot metal shrapnel had landed liberally over them, leaving melted spots on their bodies and faces, horrid blackened holes in the perfect waxy skin. Some had lost eyes, left only with dark sockets staring blankly, while others had their clothes singed, red burning edges still showing in the fabric. The green lawn was potholed, hot coals burning through the fake grass into the machinery below, and several houses had little flames licking at their structures.

“No! What have you done?” screamed Evan. His kindly countenance had disappeared, and what remained was gray skin draped hollowly over the bones of his face. His soft eyes had sunk deeply into their sockets, shadowed and reddened, and even his voice was weaker, even as he voice his dismay. Sam and Dean exchanged a look; this was more than despair, this was a transformation. Evan moved around the village, picking up and dropping manikins, accomplishing nothing in his aimless, crazed grief.

“What's happening with him?” asked Dean. He was still feeling pretty freaked by the whole discovery of the manikins' origins, and sickened as Sam by the revelation of Evan's loathsome scheme.

Sam bit his lip. “We just destroyed his reason for living. Rightfully so, but it's still devastating to him.”

Dean jumped up onto the town's platform, looking around at the destruction and at Evan, now kneeling next to the fire house and cradling a couple of the firemen, crooning nonsense to them. As Dean walked around the town himself, he heard another sound, and he stopped to listen more closely. He walked again, slower this time, head tilted.

Sam asked curiously, “Dean?”

Dean held up a finger, and Sam fell quiet. Dean could hear Evan's voice, soft and plaintive and quavery now, along with the hissing of hot metal and flames. But beyond that—something else. Faint and yet piercing in that high-pitched, ultrasonic way, almost felt more than heard. An unearthly noise, one that set Dean's hair on end.

Kneeling next to a couple of manikins, Dean bent over, ear close to the figures.

Cold revulsion trickled through Dean. It was the manikins themselves producing the eerie sound. It was a sound of pain and mortal wounds, of souls wailing their agony. The souls of the children still trapped in the dying manikin shells.

He almost couldn't stand up again, his limbs suddenly weak from horror. An arm slipped under his, bolstering him and helping to lift him as Sam drew him away. They got to the edge of the platform and jumped down, Dean immediately turning a couple of steps away to vomit, wishing he could rid his ears of that sound as he rid his body of vileness.

“What? What is it?” asked Sam, his dirty face concerned.

“Sam...they're alive. At least kind of. They...fuck, they're _screaming_.” Dean gagged again but resisted being sick. “We gotta...help them somehow. They're suffering.”

Sam face blanched. “No! Oh God, that's--” His words trailed off as the enormity of Dean's words sank in.

Evan was sitting now, half-leaning against the fire house. His clothes looked like the rags on a skeleton, his hands bony claws. Sam shook his head.

“And what about him? What's his deal? There's something more than just being the magician/mechanic here.”

They were silent a moment, digesting all they'd learned. Sam spoke first.

“I bet he was tapping into their magic himself or something. Like he's linked to them. Now that they're dying, he's dying.”

“Let him die, the bastard. Hell can take care of him. These kids though.” Dean choked. “Fuck, Sam, _kids_ but...we can't leave them like this. They're suffering.”

Sam's eyes watered, but he nodded firmly. “Yeah, I get it.”

They pulled out their handguns, grimly checking the clips before jumping up onto the platform. Together they took a deep breath, then began to walk though the town in different directions. The shots were briskly paced, as neither man wanted to linger on the ghastly task. One by one, the manikins' tortured existences were ended by precise head shots.

When the last manikin was dispatched, Dean stood still and listened.

The tent was silent, except for hissing flames and Evan's muffled, despairing sobs.

Sam pulled out the salt container and dusted the entire platform liberally. Dean followed with the lighter fluid, generously squeezing clear, wet streams. Together they hopped down and Sam stood still as Dean struck the matchbook and tossed it into the town. The flames exploded with a _whump_, licking hot and greedy over the perfect little houses and mangled bodies alike.

A final piercing howl sounded, and through the flames Sam saw Evan's body collapse and blacken.

Dean swallowed thickly. “Let's get out of here.”


End file.
